When the Clock Strikes Midnight
by chibiaries
Summary: He was no knight in shining armor, and she was no princess. But doesn't true love conquer all? //Lelouch x Shirley//


Disclaimer: I don't own Code Geass. *Sigh* I don't even have a single plushie of any of the characters. I think I'll cheer myself up with Pizza Hut pizza! Pizza Hut supports the Rebellion!

Wow…that was kind of redundant.

This oneshot should be set around R2 after episode 13 or so…um, spoilers?

xxx** When the Clock Strikes Midnight** xxx

Silence reigns in the room.

It stretches and prowls with panther-like grace in the shadows, the hush of quiet before a quick kill.

Two figures are silhouetted in the dimly-lit space, sitting opposite each other.

A chessboard lies on the table between them, the black and white pieces lined up neatly in their ranks, primed for battle; in the end, one side will emerge triumphant, the other crushed to dust.

"The terms of our wager are set?"

The deep voice echoes, echoes strangely in the windowless building; it is undoubtedly male, though his face and body are hidden in the dark void created where the little light there is seems to twist and veer away from his very presence.

The person on the other side of the board inclines his head the tiniest fraction.

The shifting play between light scattered in shadows reveals a momentary glimpse of the face of a youth; sharp, well-defined features, charcoal dark bangs, and an eye of deep violet. Quiet confidence emanates from his gaze.

The gloved hand of his opponent hovers over an ivory pawn and moves it forward a square.

A clear challenge—_defeat me if you can_.

The youth responds swiftly, slim, pale fingers setting down his piece slowly, deliberately, with the finesse and grace of a musician's flying hands on the black-white keys of a piano.

The tension between the two players rises with every captured piece—a white bishop, a lost knight. The atmosphere quivers with concentration and hushed expectancy. Victory dances and wavers between the deft fingers of both players, insubstantial smoke darting out of their grasp.

At this moment in time, both generals of the armies seem evenly matched in wits and determination; neither flinching nor betraying a sign of nervousness when another unit is felled in combat.

The quiet shatters with a word.

"Check."

His adversary's jaw tightens as his eyes scan the board, probing for a weakness, a gap in the armies' defenses to breach.

"Mate." The voice holds no joy, no triumph in his win.

A single drop of sweat glistens and rolls down the curve of a pale cheek.

He had lost.

Lost.

The youth's eyes widen, fingers clenching into tight fists, nails digging painfully into his palms.

"No."

A chair scrapes the floor as he stands, both hands spread on the corners of the board.

"No. This is…" his words are stuck in his throat, unwilling to state the finality of his situation. His whole frame trembles with some fierce emotion—anger, shock, sorrow—fragile and sharp-edged as a cracked looking glass.

_I have lost._

"You can only accept this defeat and learn from it what you will."

The youth lashes out, clattering the remaining pieces—pawns, rook, knights—onto the ground with a violent sweep of his arm.

He laughs suddenly, a harsh, hollow sound, bitter and tinged with despair. It was the laugh of a broken man.

Slender fingers reach up to brush back the inky strands obscuring his face.

"Tell me then, who are you? Who is it that has defeated me?"

His voice rings with authority, an air of command backed with steel. His hand drops; both of his previously amethyst eyes now glow with an otherworldly scarlet, a strange v glittering in his pupils.

"I, Lelouch vi Britannia, commands you!"

To his surprise, the victor stands unafraid in the shadows, his voice as cordial as if the topic of the discussion held no more importance than a query on the daily weather.

"The power of kings will not work here. None of the Geass has any effect on me, as a matter of fact."

The boy's eyes widen as his unknown opponent steps forward, stopping a foot away only to whisk the black king off the ground and place it gently back on the board.

"What sort of game are you playing at?" His face twists from fear to fury almost instantly.

"You ask who I am. The real question should be: who in the world are you? Lelouch Lamperouge, 17th heir to the crown of Britannia, son of Emperor Charles VII and Imperial Consort Marianne, an exiled prince in Japan, dedicated member of the Ashford Academy's student council, and devoted brother."

The boy frowns, his gaze still glimmering blood red.

"Or are you the ruthless leader of the rebellious Black Knights, the individual known as Zero?"

With each word, the adolescent's pale face blanches to an ashen shade; he is unable to tear his eyes from the familiar masked being in front of him, horror apparent in his expression at the reminder.

The Executioner of Justice, the notorious Vigilante, Slayer of the Powerful, Protector of the Weak—corporeal, no longer abstract ideals or metaphysics, but given a form and a voice.

The dark-haired youth has recoiled from the person in front of him, body tensed and eyes an even brighter shade of scarlet; a single word pounds into his head over and over again, pulsing as rapidly as his heartbeat.

Murderer.

Murderer.

_Murderer of his friends' happiness; Euphemia, Suzaku, Shirley…what have I done, what have I done?_

"It is my nature to assume the shape that lurks in every mortal's nightmare, their darkest fear. You ask my name. I have many: Hades, the Cold One, Grim Reaper— I answer to them all."

He wants to destroy the mocking human—no, not human, not even remotely close— opposite him. He wants to rip off the long, sweeping cape, tear off the mask that he recognizes all too well.

Something heavy and leaden squeezes his chest; his mouth tastes acrid guilt and faint regret.

He had failed, failed to win back what he had desired the most.

"No. Not all is lost, Lelouch."

His dark head jerks, his face wary and suspicious; but hope lingers still, in his eyes, in his waiting silence.

"You were a good opponent; many a century has passed since I have played against one with such cunning," He paused. "You have relieved me temporarily from my tedium, and for that, I thank you."

Lelouch slumps into his chair, head bowed.

"Is what you ask for your true desire?" There is a tinge of curiosity in his voice. "It will only hasten your journey to my domain."

The boy smiles grimly.

"My life…holds little value for me. I just need her."

Let me see her, even for a minute; let me hold her one last time.

At his words, the dark space melts away, dissipating like morning fog. He finds himself inexplicably lounging in a meadow, with odd patches of wildflowers breaking up the smooth green. The sky is clear; blue, blue, blue seamlessly melding with the horizon.

He stands slowly, feels a playful breeze swirl through his bangs.

"Lulu!"

Time stops, freezes for a breathless moment.

There had only been one such person who he ever allowed to call by that name, in such a bright and cheerful voice.

He feels slender arms wrap around his shoulders, the familiar scent of lilies, the head with hair like burnished orange silk tucked under his chin.

It was her.

No one else had ever fit into his arms so well.

She pulls back from him, a little, and he notes that she is wearing the same forest-green gown that she had donned on their first official date; she had scolded him then for being a womanizer as well as a no-good gambler.

The dress suits her well, setting off the healthy glow of her skin and unusual hair.

Her lips are curved in a smile—when had she last smiled?

He sees her eyes-the same golden-green hue of midsummer grass.

She is beautiful, scintillating, happy.

He wants so badly to burn her image into his memory.

"I'm sorry, Lulu."

Shock floods his senses.

"For what, Shirley? I should—"

"For being a burden. For my inability to help you. For making you suffer loneliness. For being reckless and foolish and putting myself in danger."

His head shakes slowly from side to side at her words.

Instinctively, he hugs her tightly, like a drowning man clutching at a lifeline.

He can hardly believe that she is here, warm and solid and wonderfully alive.

"I—I'm sorry, Shirley." His voice is barely above a whisper. He swallows once, leaving the rest unsaid.

For killing your father. For shattering your world. For hurting you.

His apology feels woefully inadequate—his lips open slightly, to beg for her understanding, to plead for her not to hate him.

"Lulu." Her eyes are staring into his, sparkling with unshed tears. Her hands are cradling his face gently, so gently.

It hurts him that she still gazes at him with such devotion and trust and love when he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve any of it.

"I forgive you." He flinches slightly at that; her love hurts him almost as much as her hate would-and why shouldn't she hate him? But nevertheless, his whole body sags with relief, his head resting upon her shoulder to hide his relief.

"I already forgave you long ago." He imagines that she's still smiling at him, in that sweet and guileless way of hers.

He remembers a time when she had held him like this, when she had been carefree and happy.

He wishes he could give back to her half of what she had to him, to atone for what he had destroyed in her life.

With a sudden impulsiveness, he swiftly leans in, his hands on her shoulders pulling her close. He kisses her intensely, as if she could taste his apology, his sincerity on his lips.

_Shirley._

_I never wanted to hurt you._

_Because…I love you. _

_I love you. I love you._

_I know this now._

They break away reluctantly, her cheeks tinted pink. Lelouch feels better than he had in a long time, like the thirsty traveler stranded in the desert who received a much-needed drink of refreshing water.

His fingers unconsciously sweep back an errant strand of auburn hair behind her ear that had tickled his cheek.

She smiles, with the slightest air of melancholy.

"Goodbye, Lulu."

Even as he tightens his hold on her, she fades from his arms, disappearing like mist.

_I love you, Lulu…Even if I was born again…I always will…_

"Shirley!"

He sits up gasping heavily, heart beating as rapidly as hummingbird wings.

His face is damp with sweat, matting his dark hair to his forehead.

He wakes up alone, in a dark room, their rendezvous a distant radiance in his memory.

Moonbeams and starshine illuminates the surroundings enough for a glimpse of a framed picture on his desk; a snapshot of Shirley beaming in front while he hovers around the edge smiling unguardedly at her in amusement.

She is gone.

He would do anything to change that.

_I wanted...to be the one thing truthful to you..._

XX XX XX


End file.
